Somebody to Die For
by KristieConspiracy
Summary: When Voldemort won the war, Draco shut himself out: out of the Death Eaters, out of the world. When Hermione drew him back in, it wasn't what he expected.


**Challenge: **DobbyRocksSocks' _Harry Potter Chapter Challenge_ on HPFC; Cheeky Slytherin Lass' _Fanfiction Scavenger Hunt Competition_ on HPFC; SunlightHurtsMyEyes' _The Fault In Our Stars Competition_ on HPFC; j943r534's _Literary Quotes Challenge_ on HPFC; Maria from Ravenclaw's _The Same Ol' People, Same Ol' Music Challenge_ on HPFC.

**Characters: **Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger

**Prompts: **Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows chapter 34: _The Forest Again._ (Write about accepting death.) Bonus prompt: #16: Nightmare.  
34. A fic over 5,000 words  
Isaac #6: _Because I don't want to see a world without (insert name here) in it.  
_#96: _The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings_. (Shakespeare, Julius Caesar.)  
Daughtry: _What I Want_

**Word count: **6,022

* * *

_It always seemed that I was sorry for the things that I did,_  
_But never did a thing about it 'til I let you in_

_**What I Want**__ - Daughtry_

* * *

_But when I'm standing in the gallows, I'll be staring at the sky_  
_Because no matter where they take me_  
_In death I will survive_  
_And I will never be forgotten_  
_With you by my side_

_**Somebody to Die For**__ - Hurts_

* * *

**i. Prologue**

_Draco Malfoy has screwed up_.

That was what the reworked _Daily Prophet_ would print on the front page, or variations of it. _Draco Malfoy is a traitor. Dracy Malfoy: blood traitor. Slytherin Prince: muggle sympathiser. Draco Malfoy: mudblood lover._

He didn't regret it for an instant.

* * *

**ii. Defeat**

Harry Potter died in the Battle of Hogwarts, 1998. He was vanquished at the hands of the most powerful Dark wizard of all time, Lord Voldemort, who then played with his corpse for entertainment.

The history books would say that the victory was bloody, hard won and inevitable. None of this was true. The Dark Lord had technically cheated, having waited until The-Boy-Who-Lived turned his back to cast the killing curse. The 'truth' he told was a lie, not that anyone still alive was game enough to accuse the monster of this.

Dozens of people died that day, including Narcissa Malfoy. She was killed for betraying the Dark Lord. This happened when she lied about Harry Potter being dead.

She died right in front of her only son, eyes fixed on his unwavering silvery orbs. Draco hadn't even so much as batted an eyelid as he watched his normally graceful mother crumple to the ground in an uncoordinated heap. He was far too distracted by the effort of suppressing the alien sense of dread that was starting to consume him.

That day, he vowed that he would never put his life on the line. He would never risk it, the one thing he still had full possession of, the thing he finally had control over, not for anyone else.

He didn't know how mistaken he'd be when he made this oath.

He didn't count on _her_.

* * *

**iii. Prisoner**

Dozens of muggleborns were enslaved that day. It was that, or die, or be sent to Azkaban.

When the entire Weasley family ended up in the wizarding prison, even Draco didn't try to claim that they deserved it. The dementors had free reign to kiss whoever they opted to, whenever the urge took them: as far as Draco Malfoy was concerned, only one wizard alive today deserved that. That was the one who didn't even have a soul to take.

That in mind, he kept to himself. He isolated himself in the Manor, alone: he even dismissed his house elf. He didn't rue this decision in the least, this subtle punishment, until the last person he wanted to see - together with the last person he _expected_ to see - showed up at his door.

Hermione Granger had been apprehended, Lucius Malfoy explained in a monotone. The Dark Lord had stated his wish for the mudblood filth to be kept under the watchful gaze of Draco, his most loyal servant, and wasn't that wonderful? Such an honour, an enviable demonstration of faith, and Draco Malfoy, you had best thank My Lord when you get the chance, if you don't want to risk being considered ungrateful.

The witch stepped into the hall when Lucius jabbed the tip of his wand into her back between her shoulderblades, head held high despite the bruises and filth that covered her. Draco held out his hand and took her wand from his fathers pale, imperfect hand, with fingers too long to be considered in any way _normal_. He turned the older wizard away with a flick of his wrist, closing the door with an impatient snap. He had no use whatsoever for the drama the unyielding wizard no doubt wanted to cause, particularly in regards to something as pointless as the dismissal of a house elf that had never willingly sworn fealty to the Malfoy name to start with. Then he held the want out to the witch, who eyed it suspiciously.

"Granger, just take it. It's of no use to me, is it, since its' loyal to you and whoever disarmed you." _I'd really like to know who that particular witch or wizard was, actually,_ he decided. He didn't know whether to shake their hand or curse them once he worked it out.

The witch's expression went blank as she took the familiar weapon, rolling it in her graceful fingers. _Not too long at all_, he observed as she glanced back up at him. "What's to stop me from attacking you and getting out of here?"

He shrugged. "Do what you want. Just keep in mind that this is the safest place for you right now."

"That's rich," she scoffed, "coming from a Death Eater."

"I am what I am. It's pointless trying to rebel, as He's too powerful without Potter and Dumbledore to oppose him."

"I wonder whose fault _that_ is."

"You can blame me all you want, but I couldn't have done anything about the Dark Lord being a dishonest bastard. That's been a given since day one, so far as I can tell." He leant back against the edge of the hall table, his tone remaining quiet and measured. "Malfoy manor and the grounds are here for you to explore however much you want. The wards keep all unannounced guests out, with the exception of Lucius and myself, which I intend to correct sooner rather than later. There are several bathrooms upstairs, granger, and mothers' clothes will probably fit you, or you can transfigure them to make them fit. I don't care what you do. I'll lay out something for you to wear."

"Excuse me?"

He didn't delude himself that she was horrified at the thought of him selecting her clothes; no doubt she knew that Narcissa had been a witch with far too much class to so much as own a picture of an outfit that wasn't flattering in every way possible. "Don't pretend for a second that you care about me at all, Granger. I certainly don't care about you."

"_Fine_, Malfoy," she snapped, turning and flouncing up the stairs, her tangled mane bouncing madly.

It was only when she reached the second-floor landing and disappeared from his line of sight that he allowed himself to relax. His shoulders slumped, his knuckles turned completely white as he gripped the edge of the table, and his legs trembled, on the verge of giving out.

He had _lied_. He had lied to _Granger._

"Oh, Merlin, I am _screwed_," he moaned quietly. And he absolutely was.

He didn't quite appreciate exactly how incredibly 'screwed' he was at that moment in time.

* * *

**iv. Fair**

"_Malfoy_!"

He groaned aloud, deliberately dragging his feet as he cast the requisite charms to unlock the door, only then poking his head out of the study. "_What_, Granger?"

The witch appeared in a doorway down the hall, which he knew lead to the kitchen. She was smiling, actually _smiling_ after a month of enduring his constant presence, and looked quite elegant in one of Narcissa's emerald green summer dresses. "This kitchen is _amazing_!"

He raised an eyebrow, less in reaction to her and more in response to the odd sensation that arose within him - as though he was actually _happy_ she was so ecstatic. "What brought you out of the room you claimed, Granger? I seem to remember you insisting that you'd never grace me with your presence."

She at least had the good sense to blush, the soft pink tinting her smooth cheeks. "I - I wanted to thank the elves," she stammered, "for the meals and for their cleaning. The bathroom especially -"

"There are no elves, Granger."

She blinked. "Then where's the food coming from, Malfoy? You don't seem the type to order a lot of take-out. And these meals are home cooked, but I haven't heard any staff coming and going."

He elected not to comment on the odd, obviously muggle, term. "I cook it, Granger."

"_You_? _Seriously_?"

He didn't see why that came as such a shock to her, as he bristled in reaction to the - however unintended - slight. "I also make your bed, do your laundry, clean the house - not just your bathroom - and tend to the gardens. Is that alright with you?"

She flinched, and he mentally scolded himself. _Careful. The bruises she had on her skin when Lucius dumped her here might have faded, but they're most likely still fresh in her mind. And if she bolts, Draco, she dies. You don't want that. _"No, actually, it isn't."

That wasn't what he expected her to say. "You _just_ complimented my work. Don't think for a second that I'm going to forget such a miracle so easily, Granger," he snapped.

"I didn't mean it like that!"

"Then what _did_ you mean?" The two of them had both stepped into the hall by that point. He was leaning against the door, arms crossed defensively, while she was picking at her nails, giving off an air of nonchalance. An incredibly tense, obviously _faked_, air of nonchalance.

"It's hardly fair."

He didn't expect that, either. Every woman in his life had always refused to do any potentially heavy labour: they always had a fresh manicure they simply couldn't ruin, or a new set of robes they couldn't afford to risk damaging, or a new hairstyle they couldn't bear to mess up. "_Fair_?"

"It's isn't a fair division of labour. There are two of us stuck here, Malfoy, so the work load should be split in half."

"What _are_ you talking about, Granger?"

"I won't have it said that I let anyone else - even you - do all the work. Just split it with me."

"I'd rather -"

"Malfoy, I'm giving you a chance to order me around. Why are you hesitating?"

He didn't have an answer for that, at least not one that he was willing to share with the supernaturally intelligent witch. Indignant, he took a single step towards her. "I'm not giving you half my work. You'll most likely manage to find a way to use it against me."

"For Heavens' sake, Malfoy, I had no idea that you thought so highly of my abilities."

"No need to be sarcastic. Merlin, woman. _Fine_. I'm serious about being unwilling to give you half the work, though."

She rolled her eyes. He doubted she realised that he had noticed, but he did. _I wonder what that spark in her eye is_. "How about this, Malfoy: we just split each job in half. You can keep an eye on me so I don't come up with a diabolical scheme to ruin your reputation, not that anyone would listen to me in _this_ world anyway, and I can do half the work, which will appease my natural workaholic nature, which will get me off your back, at least for a while. So, when you garden, for example, I... clean the fountain, or weed. See?"

He nodded quickly. "The only job left today is preparing dinner."

"If you have no problems with not having a three course meal, I can do that."

"Granger, are you teasing me?"

She grinned and winked at him before disappearing into the kitchen.

_Merlin, am I going down fast. Merlin, I'm in deep._

He didn't think he'd be able to talk his way out of this one.

* * *

**v. Garden**

"Merlin's pants, Malfoy, how on _earth_ did you manage to take care of all of this by yourself?"

"'Merlin's pants'? Granger, are you alright? Because it sounds like you're reneging on our deal."

"It's not really a _deal_," she informed him, using filthy fingers to brush a rogue strand of hair out of her face and streaking dirt across her nose. The result was a bizarre mimicry of the dirt he always recalled when his thoughts strayed to those that related to Ronald Weasley, since the idiot had paraded around with dirt smudged across his nose for the entire first day they'd known each other.

"Then what is it?"

"I'm calling it a proposal. I get something to do that will stave off my becoming insane with boredom, and you get some help, not to mention less work to do. I'd think this would come as some kind of a relief to you."

"Don't flatter yourself," he said, ignoring the thrill of contentedness that shot up his spine. "I could do all this by myself without any trouble whatsoever."

"Yeah, right. I'm serious, though, how _did_ your family end up with such a Brobdingnagian garden?"

"A _what_?"

"It's an adjective that means 'huge', more or less. It derives from Brobdingnag, an imaginary island from an old muggle book called _Gulliver's_ _Travels_. It's a story about - you don't care."

He shrugged. "Not particularly." No _way_ was he going to admit that he was fascinated with muggle literature. They were much more imaginative than wizards; it was massively entertaining to read. "Why can't you just say it's big?"

"It doesn't do it justice. Plus, it's more than just big. It's also beautiful. Though the peacocks are confusing. Why are there peacocks wandering around?"

"They were mothers'. They stay." He shuddered slightly.

"Oh, there is definitely a story there," she smiled, going back to weeding. "Malfoy, tell me about how the famous Mrs Narcissa Malfoy came to own peacocks."

He knew this was pointless. Hermione was just trying to distract him from whatever mourning she had decided he was going through. It was a twisted sentiment, one that didn't make any sense at all given that she hated him more than anything. He was, after all, the face given to the entire 'enemy' side of the war. Not that there were sides any more: you were either dead or had submitted to the side that won. There was nothing between the two, he knew, as he studied Hermione while she worked.

"I was four years old. I asked Lucius for a pet phoenix, but he said I couldn't. Obviously they're incredibly rare and difficult to train, which he explained to me, and besides, he never had liked birds. But all I heard was that he just didn't want me to have this thing that, for me, I thought I wanted more than anything I had ever wanted and ever would want. Of course that was a load of rubbish, but I was a spoiled brat -"

"Still are."

"Can it, Granger," he said, but his voice lacked venom. "Anyway, so I went to mum. I more or less nagged her for days, until eventually, she caved. 'Okay, Draco,' I remember her saying to me when she put me to bed one night, 'I can't get you a phoenix because your father is being stubborn, but I will get you some pet birds that are almost as good as a phoenix'.

"'Really?', I said, because I wasn't a particularly trusting child. I was eager, though, easily excitable, but only when Lucius wasn't around. He drilled a stoic expression into me from birth, I swear. 'Yes, of course. These birds are very special. I'll show you tomorrow afternoon'. And that was how she finally got me to fall asleep.

"Anyway, so the next day we got four peacocks, all albino. Mum named them: Eurydice, Aiolos, Orpheus and Isocrates. She would sit for _hours_ in the garden with them, watching them taunt Lucius. He absolutely _detested_ the birds - I know I'm great to look at, Granger, but why are you staring at me?"

She smiled and cleared her throat. "You have a lovely smile, Malfoy. Don't get cocky, though, I might just be biased because I haven't seen another human being in ages."

_You've got an enchanting smile, Hermione Granger, but if you tell anyone that I said that I'll deny it. _"I'm _human_ now, Granger?"

She smirked at him. "Only when it suits me to claim as much."

_Damn that witch for learning by observation!_ He poked his tongue out at her.

She laughed.

He told himself he wasn't going to change his mind about her. Granger was the most annoying witch he'd ever met. No matter how sweet her laugh sounded, no matter how she made him feel, it was impossible.

He didn't remind himself that he half the things he told himself were lies, as much it suited him to do. There was no need: he knew.

* * *

**vi. Library**

"It's weird that you don't have a library."

Draco glanced up from the paper he was scrawling on when Hermione uttered that sentence. He was frowning in surprise at the comment. "Of course I have a library. Malfoy Manor has been here for nearly a thousand years, Granger. It has five conservatories, for Merlins' sake. Why wouldn't it have a library?"

"I haven't seen one. I've walked all over the place, Draco, and the only place I've avoided is the drawing room." He shuddered when she said that; he avoided the eerily dark and unfurnished room as well. "There's no library."

_Oh_. He blinked, then stood up. He extended a pale hand to her, surprising them both - even more so when she accepted the offered hand and let him pull her from the study.

"I have unpleasant memories regarding the library. I warded it when He ordered Lucius to leave the place, leaving me in charge. Which reminds me, I still need to update the wards."

"For goodness' sake. If you don't do it yourself soon, _I'll_ do it." She didn't sound annoyed at all, really. Hermione sounded amused, actually, more than anything else.

_Ha, Hermione, I made you smile. Bet you never expected to be able to say that. _"You wouldn't dare."

"Watch me. You were talking about warding the library?"

"Right. When I was six, I broke a vase. I don't remember exactly what it looked like, except that it was pale gray and I never had the impression that anyone liked it at all. The vase was in the library, near the back, on this stupid unstable table that was right in the middle of the walkway. I was six, I was clumsy, and I'd been told a million times not to run inside. Except I'd goaded Dobby - that's our old house elf -"

"I know. Go on."

"- I'd goaded Dobby into playing chase games with me. I told him he _had_ to play, because I was a Malfoy and he had to do what I said. And I was bored, so he had to play chasing with me. He did play, only once, not that time, though. He'd pretend he was giving chase and then I'd run. That particular day, I ran into the library while Lucius was in his study - just off the library - and I was looking behind me, to check Dobby wasn't too close.

"I didn't even realise I'd crashed into the table until I hit the ground. I remember that I yelled out - I'd whacked my head on the floor and it _hurt_ - and one of the fragments of the vase sailed through the air and sliced my leg. Mum came running instantly, but Lucius stopped her. He was _livid_. 'You clumsy oaf', he said, 'how many times have I told you not to run inside?' Of course the answer was a number I was barely aware existed, but I was _six_. A _kid_. I said Dobby and I were just playing, and I was sorry.

"That was the first time Dobby was punished, at least physically. There were laws against abusing them yourself back then, to protect their mortality: a dead house elf was no use to anyone. But ignore that, I didn't know it at the time. Lucius told him to slam his ears in the library doors. You can see them."

Hermione glanced at the huge, heavy oak doors for an instant, then looked back at him. As unusual as it was for her to ignore a chance to shriek about house elf rights, she didn't seem to be interested in poor Dobby's fate, perhaps because she already knew how it ended. Her soft brown eyes were warm as they stared intently at him, as though she was trying to read his thoughts. The feeling was unpleasant, but not unwelcome: no one had ever looked at Draco like they cared so much before. "And?"

"Lucius repaired the vase," he said slowly. "Eventually. But first he picked up each individual shard from the vase, and pushed them into my skin. I still have scars on my legs that never fully healed."

She was silent for a long while, until he finally looked away. He dropped her hand at last, pushing one of the doors open. "Welcome to the Malfoy family library."

He watched her eyes widen in shock, and a smug sense of glee went through him that he had caught her unawares. The Malfoy library, after all, was one of the most expansive collections of magical texts in the United Kingdom. "It's amazing," she said, her voice catching slightly when she praised the room.

He gave her one of the smiles that were becoming slowly more common, then took a backwards step into the room. "Help me dust, then, Granger."

She moved quickly past him, drawing her wand and conjuring a cloth to dust with. He told himself that he wasn't staring at her petite figure and the way the soft green-grey dress flattered it so perfectly.

He didn't believe himself for a second.

* * *

**vii. Adrenaline**

He couldn't believe he'd been so stupid as to develop such a blatant weakness for the Gryffindor know-it-all, but he had. That was the most important fact he could tell himself.

She was wearing a black shawl over a pale green shirt and white jeans when she walked into his office a week later. On her feet were dark shoes without heels, shoes she must have transfigured because the late Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy had only owned heeled shoes, unable to willingly lend an advantage to anyone else, even when it came to height.

It was immediately obvious that she was on a mission.

"Whatever you want," he said, folding the _Daily Prophet_ in half and adding it to the growing pile of things he did not want to read that was beside his desk, "the answer is no."

"It's a perfectly reasonable request, Draco," she said quickly and impatiently. His eyebrows shot up.

"Whenever you say _reasonable_, Granger," _not to mention my given name_, "it usually means you want to do something reckless."

"Give me one example."

"You blew up an apple tree!"

"And I stand by my decision. It was that or hex _you_, and as I've become somewhat fond of you in my months here, I'd prefer not to have to dispose of your body."

"Granger -" he half-heartedly began, pretending that he was capable of ignoring the quick thrumming of his heart in his chest when she said she was _fond_ of him, "Flattery will get you nowhere."

"I want to go into a muggle shopping district."

"You want to go _where_?!"

"Muggle anywhere. Somewhere with a bookshop. I want to show you some of the literature I grew up reading. It's only fair, and you know how I feel about things being _fair_."

"How is getting yourself killed likely to be _fair_?"

"I'm not going to get myself killed. Honestly, Draco, have some faith. I survived for a year on the run, until - well, until they managed to catch up with me. A couple of hours won't hurt. Besides, I don't have any money, and I was kind of hoping -"

"...What?" he asked, when whatever she said next was spoken so quickly that even his keen ears couldn't quite pick out the separate words.

"Kind of hoping that you would maybe come with me."

He stared openly at her, not even pretending that he was trying to hide his surprise and hurt. "You want to get _me_ killed, then? Is that it?"

"No!"

"Then how is this _fair_, Granger?"

She looked down. "I just wanted some muggle stories to share with you. I don't have interesting stories that define who I am, not the way you do, not like the things you've said to me. My entire childhood is a compilation of books that I decided to read when I was certain ages, and I kept reading them all through Hogwarts. I think you'd really like Shakespeare, for example, because he wrote tragedies that helped to define muggle society -"

"Okay, fine, Granger. We can go."

He was regretting saying that, an hour and a half later. Oh, the book trip had been successful. He had Apparated the two of them to a muggle village that Hermione seemed to know, and the two had ducked into a muggle store, bought out their supply of classical muggle literature, and collected it all into a bag that Hermione had equipped with an undetectable extension charm. All that had gone off without a hitch.

It was getting back to their Apparition point that caused trouble. Draco never would have guessed that Death Eaters would be prowling muggle towns, yet here they were: Death Eaters he knew. Somewhat frantically, he rapped his wand on top of Hermione's head, casting a hasty and imperfect disillusionment charm, and hissed at her to stay perfectly still behind him. Then he turned to face the wizards who had invaded the muggle community, drawing himself to his full height. "What do you two think you're doing here?"

One of the wizards pushed back his black hood, leaning closer. Fenrir Grayback leered menacingly at Draco. "Could ask you the same thing, little Malfoy brat."

"You do, Grayback, and I'll make sure to tell the Dark Lord that you have been disobeying his orders. If I'm not mistaken, you're supposed to be watching Knockturn and Diagon Alley. Or am I wrong?"

The second figure rested a tiny hand on the werewolfs' arm, whispering urgently. It took several minutes, but Grayback eventually shot Draco an angry glare. "You win this time, Malfoy," he snapped, and Apparated away, along with his companion.

Draco groped behind him for Hermione's wrist, Apparating the second he made contact, almost landing in the fountain in the Manor garden in his haste. "We are _never_ trying that a -"

Hermione shut him up quite effectively by throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him deeply, passionately, eagerly. She broke off too soon for his tastes, gasping an apology. He simply told her, "Can it, Hermione," and swept her back into his arms, kissing her even more fervently.

He didn't have to restrain himself any more.

* * *

**viii. Shakespeare**

"The fault, my dear brute, is not in ourselves, but in our stars, that we are underneath."

"Are you done butchering Shakespeare, Draco?"

"I'm rewording it so it makes sense."

Hermione sighed, stirring slightly from her end of the couch and crawling closer, resting her head on his shoulder as she ran a finger over the page, tracing the text until she found the line he was up to. "_'The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are_ underlings'. It's a poetic commentary on the idea of fate, a criticism, really. It's saying that fate is not to blame for the lot in life that individuals end up with, but that people themselves are to blame, because they are 'underlings'. That's low ranking people on the universal totem pole, so to speak. It's saying we're all of equal rank to, for example, Arthur Weasley, within the Ministry of Magic... you already knew that, didn't you."

"I might have just been mocking it because I enjoy listening to you being a know-it-all."

"Draco," she sighed, closing her eyes as he kissed her forehead. "Don't be mean."

He was silent for a while, as though in deference to her wishes, but really he was just biding his time. _If I don't ask soon, I'll never find out._ "Do you miss them?"

"Who?"

"Everyone. Your friends. Potter. The Weasleys."

She bit her lip as he watched, but was quiet for so long that he thought she might not answer him. He was getting fidgety, and he was showing this by absently flicking the corner of the pages of the selection of Shakespeares' plays. Then she shifted his hand and turned the page, and she read a different quote.

"'_Thou know'st 'tis common: all that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity_'. "

"That's not an answer, Hermione, that's a quote."

"Shakespeare was a literary genius, Draco, a wordsmith. He perceived things that no other writer has managed to properly express. This quote from Hamlet, it says, all men must die. And all men will. I miss Harry and Ron like I'd miss an arm or a leg, but I can live without them. I have no doubts about that. It's my heart that I can't be without, which is just as well. They never had that."

He felt his own heart constrict. "They didn't?"

She looked up at him slowly, turning her head to look at him properly, letting him see that she was completely honest when she spoke.

"It was always you."

He didn't hesitate that night, or any night after. Instead, he held her warm, naked form in his arms, revelling in the small haven he had somehow created.

He didn't know how little time he had.

* * *

**ix. Nightmare**

A piercing shriek tore the night apart, and Draco was awake in an instant, wand in his hand as though it had jumped into his fingers. "What? What is it? Hermione!"

The bed beside him was a mess, Hermione having ripped the blankets up and away from their naked forms as she turned her back to him. She was trembling, an absolute mess. He felt his heart leap into his throat.

"Hermione, are you hurt? Did something happen?"

"J-just a bad dream."

"Oh," he paused for an instant, unsure of exactly what he had to offer her. After a minute of silent hesitation, he slid across the bed and began to gently knead her shoulders, eventually falling into a pattern of kissing her bare skin as he rubbed his hands over her. "Hermione, if you need to talk..."

"It was Lavender."

The name meant almost nothing to him, beyond being a faint flicker of memory. It had been more than a year since Hermione had crashed right into his life. He didn't regret a second of it. "Who?"

"Lavender Brown. Ron dated her in sixth year."

_That_ certainly jogged his memory. He kissed the space between her shoulder blades lightly. "Why would you give _that_ example? I see why you're having nightmares."

"She got attacked by Fenrir Grayback during the Battle," Hermione went on as though he hadn't spoken. "That horrible monster. I thought she was dead when I saw him chewing on her arm. It was disgusting, but I was so worried about Harry, about Ron, about all the Weasleys and some...others... that I didn't stop to interfere. Maybe if I had I would've been able to save her."

He felt his stomach drop. "Save her from what?" he asked, though he had a feeling he knew the answer. He recalled a small, tanned hand, after all, emerging from a heavy black cloak...

"She turned. She was infected, however you want to word it. She never had a chance. I regretted that I didn't stop to make sure she was dead, because no one deserves that. Not even her."

"So how do you know all of this?" He had a feeling that this was an answer to a question he'd been asking himself for a year.

"She found me. I kind of let her, I suppose, because I saw her and then reached out to her...it was a mess. I really should have been more careful, but of course I wasn't. Not careful enough. She disarmed me without any trouble whatsoever." She leant back then, her bushy hair pressing against his bare chest. She peered up at him. "It was my fault. I should never have let my guard down."

"It was _not_ your fault," he snapped, vehement. "Hermione Jean Granger, you are a genius, but you have been under far too much pressure for far too long." He pushed her gently off of him, reaching for her dress and shoving it at her. "Get dressed. We're going for a walk."

She took her time in doing so, gradually pulling on the green-gray knee-length dress that he so loved to see her wear over her thin figure. Her arms no longer trembled, the massage having done its' job. When she moved to pin her hair up, though, he stopped her, then led her into the gardens.

It wasn't until they were on the far edge of the garden maze, past the fountain, that he stopped. He leant down and kissed her as passionately as he had the first time. Then he withdrew slightly, clasping her hands between both of his. "Hermione Granger, I love you. Maybe I haven't always loved you, but I love you now, and I can't imagine not loving you any less than I do now. If the world was different - if Harry Potter had won - then, if I still managed to fall in love with you, then I would ask you to marry me in a heartbeat. Since that's a tiny bit impractical, given the circumstances, then I promise you, I will never hurt you the way I have been hurt before. It would kill me to see you in pain - it does, actually, already, and those are just bad dreams."

"I don't think the dreams are going to be a problem anymore, Draco. Don't worry. I - I love you too."

A third voice snorted in disgust. "I don't think they're going to be much of a problem, either. For either one of you."

He didn't hear the invader arrive, but he did see the light that stunned him, even as he moved towards Hermione.

* * *

**x. Gallows**

"I am disgusted in you, Draco Malfoy," the cold, high voice hissed. "Do you have anything at all to say in your defence, before you die?"

Draco glared at the Dark Lord, the monster who stood before him. "Yes, actually, I just wanted to thank you."

"_Thank him_?" a thousand disbelieving voices echoed. No doubt they all thought that he had lost his mind. Perhaps he had.

"Thank me, Draco? Whatever for?"

"For sending Hermione to the Manor, _my Lord_. It is the only good thing you have done in your life."

"How _dare_ you, you ungrateful swine -"

"_Lucius_."

The older Malfoy froze. Beside him, Hermione squeezed Draco's hand. The two were restrained, held back by some filthy Death Eaters, but they were kept close together. Their hands were touching, their fingers intertwined. They would go to their death together: it had been Hermione's silent idea, and Draco's mute consensus that guaranteed it.

"I'm sure you're most welcome, Draco. But why must you insist on dying here tonight?"

He'd been hoping they'd ask this. "Because the world is a dark place, one you've only made darker. There are pressures that we can't escape, that are easier to face with a certain person at your side. In my case, it's Hermione. Hermione makes the darkness seem less oppressive, less suffocating, less infinite. So mostly it's because I don't want to see a world without Hermione in it."

A soft sigh came from beside him. "Oh, Draco. If I'd _known_ you were such a romantic at Hogwarts, this would never have had to happen."

The Dark Lord was quietly seething, his vicious crimson eyes flashing in the wandlight provided by thousands of his supporters. "And you, mudblood? What have you to say in your defence?"

She looked away from the eerie pale mask and the slitted nostrils in the flat face, and Draco finally found warm, soft, kind brown eyes willing to meet his cold slivers of moonlight. "I wouldn't change a thing."

This was not the right thing to say, if she had been seeking to extend her life, or his life, or their romance, or anything, really. It hadn't been her intention.

"_Avada kedavra._"

He didn't die alone.

Neither did she.


End file.
